Winter Rage (Mountain Times Book 1)

by John Legg

  The men had left St. Louis eight days before, a day ahead of schedule. Bellows’s prediction on how long it would take him to train the men was off, but not by much. And their education suffered only slightly because of the downpour the day after Abner Train had hurt his hands. Before long, Bellows had most of the camp helpers and some of the trappers handling horses like they had been born to it.

  Squire surveyed the column of men and horses from the bluff and almost smiled. They had pulled out the second morning after Willis and Ransom had had their little set-to. Willis had shown up with a fierce hangover but was ready to leave.

  Squire saw that Willis was riding off to the side, a few feet from the light wagon Strapp had insisted on hauling along. Squire had protested vigorously, even at one point threatening to pull out alone.

  “You agreed to guide us, Mr. Squire,” Melton had said with some vehemence. “I would not think you were a man to go back on his word.”

  “I ain’t,” Squire growled, unhappy.

  “Let him bring the wagon, Nathaniel,” Melton had said in an attempt at conciliation. “He will learn soon enough that it will be a hindrance and must be left behind somewhere in the wilds.”

  Squire spit tobacco juice, but shrugged his shoulders. “Aye, Colonel, if’n that be the way ye want it. But this chil’ ain’t gettin’ his ass caught in winter snow on the peraira just for him and his goddamn wagon. If’n he can’t keep up, he’ll either have to be leavin’ it behind or make his own way.”

  “Fair enough, Nathaniel.”

  It hadn’t slowed them so far, Squire realized, but he hadn’t hurried the men either. But soon he would have to begin pushing the group, and that meant he would have to do something about the wagon. But he was more concerned with the growing relationship between Willis and Strapp. The burly Alabaman had been spending almost all his time riding next to Strapp’s infernal wagon. And Squire had found out just the night before they had left St. Louis that Willis had been the other man present when Strapp had met with Jacob Meisner. It left him uneasy, particularly since the two men were so different. He could not puzzle it out.

  While Willis and Strapp were standoffish, sticking almost entirely to each other’s company, the other men seemed to get along well, with but one exception—Hank Carpenter. Carpenter—who if he was to be believed, was little more than a month younger than Ransom— rode off to a side, alone, just as he had done since they left.

  Carpenter was a strange one, Squire thought. He was small, even more slight than Ransom, and shy, and he kept to himself, rarely fraternizing, taking part in none of the tomfoolery that marked the other men’s lives. He was a little weaker than everyone else, it seemed, but what he lacked in strength he made up for in stamina and grit.

  Squire was puzzled by Carpenter, but he doubted the boy would become a problem. He shrugged, looking down the bluff. Carpenter was not the only one who valued his privacy. It was a prime reason many of the mountaineers had come out West to begin with. Most were loners to a large degree, men who enjoyed the freedom and solitude of the high, cold peaks and snow-choked passes. The tense camaraderie of wintering in, or the wild and woolly doings of the rendezvous in the summer were enough fraternizing for most of them.

  “C’mon, Noir Astre” Squire said to the big black horse, “let’s be goin’.” He called the horse Black Star, always using the French because he thought it sounded prettier than the English.

  He moved the horse easily, disdaining the quirt so often used by the Indians, or the sharp metal spurs of the Spanish. While on the bluff, he’d seen a small herd of buffalo ahead, the first spotted. He angled toward the column to get the men and horses he would need to bring some meat into camp.

  “Hey, Abner,” he called out. “C’mon o’er here, boy.”

  Squire had made Train his second in command before they left. The youth showed promise, something Squire had seen right from the start. He was strong, honest, and Squire liked him. He made no bones about it either.

  Train trotted his horse over, asking, “What’s up, Nathaniel?”

  “Seen me some buff’lo. Go on and get two or three of the boys and half a dozen extra horses from Homer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Train galloped off, calling, “Tobias, Li’l Jim, Benji.”

  Melton rode up. “Nothing wrong is there, Nathaniel?” he asked nervously.

  “Nay, Colonel. Just roundin’ up a few of the boys for a bit of huntin’. We’ll be havin’ fresh buff’lo this night. Would ye care to come along?”

  A wide grin split Melton’s face. “By God, I think I would.” Train and the three other youths trotted up with the pack horses in tow. “We’re ready, Nathaniel,” Train said.

  “Bon” He wondered why Train had chosen those three men, but he did not question it.

  Li’l Jim and Benji were about the same age—sixteen pushing seventeen. And both were rather small and slight of build, wiry; they seemed a little older than their years. But where Li’l Jim was reckless and had a mouth that often got him into trouble, Benji was quiet and reserved. He seemed to have a little more education than most of the others, and while he was not standoffish, he was not as outgoing as many of them. He and Li’l Jim had hit it off right away and had become close friends already.

  Tobias Whitaker was a different matter. No one seemed to know much about him. Only that he was a member of some newfangled religion. He tried a little preaching, but with little success. But Whitaker had made a number of the men uneasy with his solemnness and hard-edged fundamentalism, since most were not very pious. Quite the opposite. He no longer bothered the men with his religion overly much, though. After the first few times he had tried preaching—and had gotten pounded for his efforts—he restricted his proselytizing to debates with one of the trappers known only as Shanks. The latter also was quite devout, though not nearly so rigid in his religion.

  As the men rode, Squire said back over his shoulder, “Since none of ye boys has e’er hunted buff’lo afore, you’ll just be watchin’ me this day. And,” he added with a smile none of them could see, “doin’ all the goddamn butcherin’, of course.”

  They topped the rise from which Squire had seen the herd. They jolted down it, feeling the breeze on their faces. “Less’n ye lads get yourselves a hankerin’ to get trampled under one big goddamn heap of buff’lo,” Squire told them, “ye got to be comin’ up on ’em from where they can’t be pickin’ up your scent. Buff’lo can’t see worth a damn, but they can smell ye for a long piece. If’n ye be doin’ it just right, ye can kill a heap of ’em without e’en havin’ to move.”

  “They look awful big from here,” Benji said. Like Li’l Jim, he never had told anyone what his last name was.

  “They be big, lad. Bigger’n damn near anything ye e’er seen. Mean as all hellfire, too, if’n ye get ’em riled. Then they can be a heap of trouble.”

  Squire reined up when they were near the bottom of the ridge, a little above the buffalo that grazed placidly on the tall grass. “Ain’t ya a little far away?” Train asked.

  “Nay, lad. Hundred yards or so. We be gettin’ much closer we just might set ’em to runnin’.”

  Squire took his heavy rifle and sat on the grass. Jake Hawken himself had specially made the flintlock to Squire’s specifications. It was a big .66-caliber job, with polished cherrywood half-stock, the buttstock studded with brass tacks. Squire placed powder horn, priming horn, ball pouch and ball starter on the ground in front of him.

  He brought the Hawken to bear and fired. The crash of the shot slammed at their ears. A large cow dropped in her tracks, kicking up dust in her short dance of death. The other buffalo continued feeding calmly, apparently unconcerned.

  Squire reloaded. Powder first, then ball on greased patch, rammed in a bit with the short starter, then firmly seated with the hickory ramrod. A dose of priming powder was placed in the pan, and the frizzen snapped shut. He cocked the rifle and fired again. Another cow dropped. Again he fired, and still another time.


  “That’s some shootin’,” Li’l Jim whispered. “Four balls shot and four buffalo down.”

  Squire stood, reloading. He slid the rifle into its scabbard, a soft, mountain lion-skin case tied to the right side of his horse. The case was decorated with horsehair tassels and glittering bits of shell and metal. The feet had been left on the pelt, and they dangled, jiggling with every movement of the horse. “That be it for now, lads. Go’n get to butcherin’.”

  The young men mounted up and rode the rest of the way down the hill, screeching as they went. A few buffalo looked up. With snorts, the animals rumbled off, slowly at first, then breaking into a run that made the ground shake.

  Squire leaped on Noir Astre. “Care to race, Colonel?” he asked impishly, a strangely childlike action that seemed to fit him anyway. “Just for the hell of it?”

  Melton nodded. “I believe I do.”

  Squire kicked his horse and it started off into a lope. “C’mon, boy, let’s go,” Squire roared. The horse whinnied and hit full stride.

  Melton kept up for the first few yards but then fell behind rapidly as the midnight stallion thundered ahead, heavy hooves kicking up dirt.

  Squire was well aware of the chuck holes and other pitfalls he could encounter with such foolishness, but, damn, a man had to bust loose once in a while, and he figured there’d be no harm in it here.

  Squire reined his horse up near the other men, and Melton pulled in a few moments later. The four youths stood staring dumbly at the buffalo, not quite knowing where to begin.

  “Gawd almighty,” Li’l Jim said as he stared at the downed buffalo. “Look at the size of him.”

  “Do not use the Lord’s name in such a blasphemous way,” Whitaker scolded him.

  “Shit,” Li’l Jim muttered, annoyed.

  Squire dismounted and pulled his large butcher knife. “Ye lads best be watchin’ close, for I ain’t aimin’ to show ye this but one time.”

  Squire sliced through the big belly cavity of the first cow, talking as he worked. “Now, if’n we wanted to be savin’ the hide, we’d roll this critter up onto her legs, which stiffen up right quick after she goes under. Ye’d split the hide down the belly, longwise, and peel it off’n each side. But we ain’t takin’ no hides just yet. Just meat.”

  He jerked the knife through the thick muscles and tendons of the animal. “The best parts of the buff’lo be the tongue and the hump. Plenty of fat on the hump and it be one of the tastiest things you can sink your teeth into. After them come the ribs and the fleece, the fatty meat under the hump.”

  Squire flipped aside a flap of hide and rummaged inside the animal. “But e’en better, at least for whettin’ your appetite whilst you’re workin’, be the liver.” He severed the organ and jerked it free. Then he tore off a hunk of the raw flesh with his teeth and chewed happily.

  The others watched, some in wonder, some in disgust as he chomped on the rich, red meat. Blood covered his hands and ran from his mouth down into his beard. But he smacked his lips in relish. “Damn, lads, that be good. Best thing this chil’s had in many a day. Ye lads care for a taste?”

  Benji and Whitaker wrinkled their noses at the thought, but Train and Li’l Jim stepped forward eagerly. “I’ll try near to anything once,” Li’l Jim said cockily.

  Squire held the bloody hunk of organ meat out, and Li’l Jim ripped into it. While he chewed, Train bit off a piece. Their faces lighted up. “Damn, that is good,” Train exclaimed.

  “Sure is,” Li’l Jim added. “You boys ought to taste it. It’s good all right. Goddamn good.” The last was directed toward Whitaker, who fidgeted but said nothing. He was learning already to ignore the jibes of others.

  Whitaker and Benji gathered around and split what was left of the raw meat, enjoying this delicious new treat.

  Train looked a little guilty. “Sorry you didn’t get none to taste, Colonel,” he said apologetically.

  “Probably just as well,” Melton said, looking relieved.

  “Don’t ye go worryin’ none, Colonel,” Squire said with a grin. “There be plenty more. Ye’ll be gettin’ your share.”

  “Thank you,” Melton said, swallowing hard.

  Squire went back to work, carefully cutting out the tongue, and then slicing out slabs of flesh, yanking out the ribs, and the kidneys, explaining as he worked, but wasting no time. When he was done, the meat lay stacked on a peeled section of hide next to the buffalo carcass.

  “All right, lads. Ye’ve seen it done. Now it be your turn. ’Cept ye, Li’l Jim. Ye and I’ll get to loadin’ up what we got here.”

  Train, Whitaker and Benji headed off, each moving toward an animal.

  The men took only the best parts, working as Squire had showed them. After loading the first pile of meat, Li’l Jim went to help Benji, while Squire went and tore out a section of buffalo intestine and carved out a few pounds of less-tasty meat.

  “What’re ya takin’ that stuff for?” Train called over, pointing at the long ropes of intestines.

  “I am to be makin’ me some boudins this night, lad. It’s been a spell since I had me any.”

  “What’s boudins?” Li’l Jim asked.

  Squire smiled. “Some of the best eatin’ ye’ll have, lad. Just ye wait and see.”

  The butchering took a little longer than Squire would have liked, and the sky was growing gray by the time they were fully loaded and heading back toward the spread-out column.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE brigade wound slowly westward along the Missouri River. They were making good time, almost fifteen miles a day. Squire figured that in a few more days, they would be past Independence, and following the Kansas River.

  Although satisfied with the progress they had made in the week and a half since they left St. Louis, Squire knew they could not slacken their pace. Indeed, before long, they would have to increase it. The fresh buffalo meat would help. For the first week or so they had relied on supplies packed with them, for that close to the settlements, there was little game to be found. But now they were on the fringes of buffalo country, and they would be able to eat well and regularly.

  “All right, lads,” Squire shouted, riding up to the plodding travelers. “It be near dark, and we’ll be makin’ camp soon. There be a good spot, with clean water, less’n a mile on. Mayhap ye’d like to commence hurryin’ just a bit. We got us fresh meat here just a waitin’.”

  “You heard him, ya goddamned lazy-ass, saddle-sore sons a bitches,” Homer Bellows roared. “I reckon most of ya ain’t nary had buffler meat cooked fresh afore, so’s ya don’t know what ya can look forward to. But I do. Yep. I can taste that hump meat now. All roasted up, drippin’ wit’ juices and flavor. Gonna hurry my ol’ bones up, I am. Yep.”

  Bellows pushed the horses a little harder, knowing the hands would pick up their pace so as not to wind up eating dust—that and because they knew the end of the day was near and fresh meat was waiting.

  They halted at a small, sheltering grove. “Get them mules unloaded, boys,” Bellows yelled. “Ain’t got all goddamn day for it. And some of you boys get the goddamn horses unsaddled. Them horses is worth more’n all you boys put together. Can’t afford to lose a one of ’em.”

  While most of the camp helpers dealt with the animals, Squire got the would-be trappers to make camp. At this early stage, all the hands had to pitch in, no matter what they had been hired for. So the future trappers chopped wood, bucketed up fresh water and kindled cook fires. Soon fresh meat was roasting.

  When the work was done, the men flopped down by the small fires to eat the rich meat and corncakes. Even now there was a division among the men—the mangeurs de lard sat together at their fires and the trappers at others, not mingling much. They might share work, but they saw no reason to socialize.

  The cornmeal would not last much longer, but soon there would be yams, prairie turnips, wild potatoes and berries—if winter didn’t come on them too early. In any case, they were entering buffalo country, and food wo
uld be plentiful. That’s all a man needed, fresh buffalo.

  As the others devoured hump meat and seared tongue and slabs of fleece, Squire pounded and shredded some of the less tasty cuts of buffalo. When he had a pile of it in front of him, he melted some fat in an old cook pot. Then he tossed in the shredded meat and some plain flour.

  Satisfied that the consistency of the hot mess was just right, Squire began stuffing it into the long buffalo intestines, squeezing out the mostly digested material within as he went along. Train and the others watched intently.

  Finally Squire was finished. With a look of anticipatory delight, he threw the sausagelike delicacies onto the coals. .

  Mountain men always gorged themselves when food was plentiful, and Squire, because of his size, ate more than most. He gobbled down hunk after hunk of buffalo meat. For him it was cooked just right—seared near black on the outside, barely warm and still bloody on the inside. He alternated the chunks of meat with pieces of toasty corncakes smothered in grease. He paid no heed to the crumbs and juices and blood that spilled over his beard and onto his already filthy calico shirt.

  With his knife he finally speared one of the sausages he had made. “These here be called boudins,” he said, holding the steaming treat up for all to see. “Finest goddamn eatin’ ye can have. The Injins mostly eat ’em just the way they come from the buff’lo, but this coon and most others I know be preferrin’ ’em made up and cooked a spell. Though most of the devils in the mountains can eat anythin’, come starvin’ times.”

  He put the long, thin tube to his lips and bit off a hunk, eyes closed in pleasure. “Aye, lads,” he said, chomping down. “ ’Tis good.” He held it out and Train took a bite.